The neighbors were not happy about my choice of yard art . . .
They’d rather see it carted off to an isolated reservation, so that every time they leave their homes, they aren’t reminded of how they and their fathers decimated a people, even down to our name. We are not Chippewa. Chippewa came from their foolish vernacular, created with uncultured tongues because they couldn’t form their mouths around our verb-heavy, Anishinaabemowin language.
Mrs. Thompson worried my statues would frighten her children at the bus stop, so I sent them beautifully beaded moccasins to dance in while they waited for the school bus to take them to a building where they’ll be taught to call me a savage.
“What is this supposed to mean?” Mrs. Ringrose asked, and I inscribed my history onto birch bark scrolls and posted them on her front door the next morning.
I doubt she will read it. They are all too comfortable in their ignorance.
word count: 147
This is in response to Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.
Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.